


Heathen Rose

by JSWilliams



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Heathens, Ivar the Boneless - Freeform, Plans For The Future, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Romance, Princes & Princesses, Ragnar sons, Romance, Vikings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24911443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JSWilliams/pseuds/JSWilliams
Summary: AU where King Ecbert of Wessex sends his only daughter to marry one of the many sons of Ragnar Lothbrok in a bid for everlasting peace between their two peoples.
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Original Character(s), Ivar (Vikings)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	Heathen Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Sort but no less sweet - hope you enjoy!

* * *

**Rose** / **Ivar**

* * *

**P** rincess Rosemary, the only daughter of King Ecbert of Wessex, stepped off the boat that had ferried her to Kattegat, with unease fluttering wildly in her gut. It would seem that the whole heathen settlement had come out to bare whiteness to her arrival, standing behind the King and his family, whispering in a tongue she could not understand. She supposed, she couldn’t rightly blame them for their curiosity, this treaty had been years in the making, with many wars fought in-between all those years negotiation.

She was to be the linchpin - or to be more precise - her _marriage_ to one of the famed sons of Ragnar was to be. She and the chosen son would unite the Heathen and the Christian people together through the bonds of marriage, or at least, in theory, they would. Rose personally couldn’t see this working, and really couldn’t see how her father and King Ragnar thought that it actually might. Their ways of life were just too different, and not to mention the language barrier that would make communicating with her new husband pretty hard, if not entirely impossible.

She was just grateful her father had given her the right to some choice, to choose which of Ragnar's sons she would wed, he thought that he could appease her wrath with that one act of mercy. But Rose’s rage could not be dampened, not by his empty gestures, and especially not when he was so hell-bent on sending her away to live with these heathens, who had been raping and pillaging their way across her homelands for the last decade.

And as she took in her new home with sharp hazel eyes, Rosemary couldn’t help but find it more than a little lacking, in both colour and refinement. It was like the only colours these people apparently knew of was grey, grey, and greyer still. It made her gold satin dress stand out all the more, with its intricate scale-like detailing on its tight corset, and contrasting black floral pattern on the thick skirt, which dusted lightly across the wooden deck with a soft swooshing sound that was familiar and somewhat settling to her fraying nerves.

It was a dress that her older brother, Prince Aethelwulf, had procured the most skilled seamstress in all the west to make especially for her to wear today, to show the heathens that she was somehow superior to them and that they should consider themselves lucky to be in her presence, let along to take her hand in marriage, or some such nonsense along those lines. It was extravagant and _much_ more ostentatious than her usual attire, but she wore it anyway, knowing that it was Aethelwulf’s goodbye gift and his smile at seeing her in it had been a worthy price to pay for her discomfort.

Though, after glimpsing Queen Aslaug’s jealous eye, she wished she had elected _not_ to wear, knowing it wouldn’t do her well to gain the Queen’s ire before they had even shared words.

“Princess Rosemary,” the joyous voice of King Ragnar Lothbrok called across the dock to her, thankfully in a language that she could understand, her own, “You are finally here! We have been eagerly awaiting your arrival, your Highness.”

“As have I, King Ragnar,” Rosemary lied smoothly, curtsying slightly, all the while making it a point to not look at the four ominous shadows his sons made behind him.

Instead, her eyes fell to his feet, where she was startled to meet the most shocking blue eyes she had ever seen. This must be Prince Ivar, the cripple son she had heard so much about, the one they called Ivar the Boneless. He was not at all like she had imagined he would be, all frail and deformed, in fact, he was rather handsome to behold. His shoulders were wide and strong looking, no doubt from having to drag himself around all the time. And his legs, the deformity in question, was barely noticeable, save for the thick leather bands binding them together.

“Ah, do not worry, princess,” Ragnar laughed warmly, regaining her full attention, “I know that you are not here by your own choice. But I am grateful for your presence regardless, you and one of my sons will ensure peace between our people, which is something I long for greatly.”

Rose didn’t say anything, just smiled tightly at the King, who turned to introduce his shadows to her with a flourish, “This here is Björn, my oldest son, from my first marriage.”

The tall blonde in question had a particularly stern expression on his handsome face, one that said clearly that he wanted no part in this whole endeavour for peace, and that he was far from impressed by her otherworldly attire. Not like the three men to his left, all of which all wore similar expressions to which Rose knew all too well, as they went about undressing her with their eerily similar piercing eyes of blue.

“And this strapping young man is Ubbe, mine and Queen Aslaug eldest son. Next, we have Hvitserk and Sigurd,” Ragnar introduced in order, before coming to stand before his cripple son, where he sat upon the edge of the dock, “This here is Ivar, my youngest son.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Rose lied smoothly, flicking her eyes briefly over the five princes, actively making a point _not_ to linger too long on any one of them in particular.

Ragnar translated her words, which earned a snort from one of the princes, Hvitserk, who proceeded to say something in his native tongue. Whatever it was he said, Rose was sure it was something crude about her, given the lecherous grins he shared with his brother, Sigurd.

Seeing her and her guards’ displeased expressions at the unknown remark, Ragnar shushed his sons, snapping something harshly at them before turning back to her with a slightly-more strained smile still upon his face. “We have prepared a feast in your honour, princess,” he said with a now gentling smile, motioning her forward, “Come, let us move this to the main hall.”

And with that, the crowd dispersed, finally relieving Rose from the pressure of their judging and hostile eyes. She turned with just as much flourish as her heavy skirts would allow for, pinning her guards with a pointed glare as they tried to walk forwards with her, drawing all six of the fierce men up short. They had not thought that she heard them, thinking their lewd words would be lost in the repetitive crashing of the waves around them, but that had not been the case - She had heard every word.

“The Heathen _whore_ does not _need_ your assistance presently, _gentlemen_ ,” she said with fake sweetness, drawing all six of her personal guards up to an abrupt halt, with them all wearing similar startled looks of genuine horror. “You may all remain with the boat – for now.”

“But . . . Your Highness,” one of the soldiers protested, all of whom she still had yet to managed to learn the names of, not that she would even bother to do so now in any case, “The King himself requested that we remain at your side at all times, until the day you marry, to ensure your safety.”

“I am _above_ you, yes?” She asked spitefully, glaring at the men who had been entrusted with her safety, some of her brother's most loyal men, “You are to take _my_ words as _law_ until you return to Wessex, correct?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” they all answered promptly, sharing looks of confused caution between them, clearly sensing the precarious situation their thoughtless words had placed them in.

“ _Good_. Now, listen to my words carefully, for I will not be repeating them: You are to _remain_ with the boat, I shall send for you once I have settled in, understood?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” came the collective response, eyes pointedly not meeting her own, as they bowed to her in one unified formation. 

And with that dealt with, Rose turned with an almost dramatic swoosh of her skirts, only to meet eyes with an amused King. He merely raised a brow at her, both curious as to what her men had done to invoke her rage and yet not willing to ask. The King wasn’t the only one who found her little interaction with her guards amusing, his youngest prince did too, which piqued Rose’s own interest. The other princes all looked from her to their obviously amused father, with expressions of pure confusion, a clear sign they hadn’t understood a word she had spoken. And yet, Ivar seemed to have understood all of her sharply spoken words, a curiosity she hoped would at least mean that she'd have more than just the King as a conversationalist.

She smiled and nodded at the appropriate times, as Ragnar lead her through Kattegate, giving her an informative tour as they passed through, overloading her with history and impossible stories about Gods of Thunder and Goddesses of Fertility, all of which she honestly had little to no interest in. If her week’s long journey from her homeland to Kattegate hadn’t been tiring, the show-and-tell trek to the main hall certainly was, Rose thought grumpily, as she put upon a smile of content, a lie she had been perfecting since childhood.

The large wooden hall she had been lead to, while being admittedly grand, paled in comparison to the stone, painting lined, walls of her old home. No tapestries lined these walls, nothing save the furred skins and heads of dead things, a tribute to their notoriously brutish and unrefined ways, no doubts.

Rose stood back as the princes settled in at the table, with Ragnar at its head and Aslaug to his left, unsure as to where she was supposed to sit. Back at home, she always sat beside her brother, who in turn sat beside their father at his right hand, it was how it had been since she was old enough to join them during meal times. But here, apparently, besides Rangnar's seat at the head of the table, all other seats were a free-for-all. 

There were three spaces she could choose from to sit in: the empty seat beside Björn at the other head of the table, the one that resided snuggly between Hvitserk and Sigurd, or the one beside Ivar. It wasn’t exactly a hard decision to make, as she recalled her first interaction with the famed sons of Ragnar.

She could sit next to Björn, but that would mean having to deal with his stern silence, for she was sure he couldn't speak her language and even surer that he would not even attempt to try to do so. And the possibility of sitting between the two princes, Hvitserk and Sigurd, she was equally as sure would be just as unpleasant. In fact, she doubted they'd honestly be able to make it through the first servings without one or both of them attempting to put hands upon her thighs from under the table, men like them never knew when to keep their hands to themselves.

All of which left her with one option, and at least with Ivar, she just might have someone to talk to, if her suspicions that he could, in fact, understand her native tongue were correct. So she made her way over to him, head held high, delicate hands held clasped daintily before her. 

He smiled at her broadly, even go so far as to daringly help her adjust her skirts, as she swung herself over the bench to sit as comfortably as she was able on the uncushioned wooden slab. Her behind was sure to be numb before the even was through, how they could stand it, Rose honestly did not know, she was already uncomfortable and she'd only just sat down. 

"Tell me, Princess," the prince beside her spoke up, voice a low drawl, no doubt to keep the others from taking note, "Why chose to sit here, with me . . . the _cripple_ , when you could be sitting beside one of my older brothers', hum?"

"You speak my tongue, I figured I'd have a far more pleasant evening beside you than one of them," she admitted honestly, not entirely effective in hiding her disdained expression from anyone as she flicked her sharp eyes his brothers in question.

"I did not see you when I was in Wessex," Ivar stated, brows peaked curiously, drawing her eyes back to give him her full attention, "Why is that, hum? I met you're father and brother, but not _you_ , not even as they offered your hand in marriage to my father like a man offers cattle to the Gods in sacrifice."

Rose did not like the comparison, not at all, especially not when it wasn't all that far off from being true - she had basically been given away like livestock. Her brother had raged against it, she knew, the whole castle had been in a twitter for months after the Heathen King and his cripple son had long-since left their shores, discussing just how against their King's plans their beloved Prince was. Seeing them at great odds had not been good for their kingdom, especially not when it had looked for a brief moment like the prince was going to rebel against the King, to save his poor sister from the clutches of the Heathens.

Obviously, that had not happened, and so here she was. Her father had always said, little girls should be seen and not heard, and even as a woman grown of sixteen years, she was still seen as little more than a pretty face by her father. It had been heartbreakingly easy for him to give her away, with no real reassurance of her fate, especially when she knew he would not keep his side of the peace in the long run. 

The thing about not being allowed a voice, you tend to blend into the background when others speak, meaning she probably heard far more than her father had ever wished that she would. She knew all his plans, more so than even her brother did, which was why she hated her father for sending her here.

Had peace truly been his goal, maybe she wouldn't have minded her predicament, being a sacrifice for the greater good of her people? But that had not been the case, no - she was to be used as a distraction, all so that her father could build up a sizable army and fleet so that he could actually have a war he might just win with the very people he meant to make peace with. 

"Your father thinks that I am some great prize," she laughed bitterly, voice just as low as his own, as she stroked her surprisingly steady hands down the front of her satin skirts, "The Princess of Wessex and the only daughter of King Ecbert. The thing that he doesn't know is, as a woman I have very little worth to the men of Wessex, not even my being of royal blood makes any difference to that fact, if anything, it lessens my worth greatly."

"How so?" Ivar questioned, frown deep between his brows, as he looked upon the beautiful creature sat beside him, wondering just how anyone could ever doubt her worth, it was all there in her intelligent eyes. 

"As a woman, I have one use, to produce an heir," she explained, as she sniffed at the drink a serving girl had just poured into her . . . dear god . . . was that really an animal horn? "I always knew that I would be sold to a wealthy lord or prince to better my father's riches in some nefarious way or another. But I made the mistake of refusing to do so willingly, I foolishly told him I wanted to fall in love, and in turn, lowered my worth and usefulness in his eyes."

It had been a childish fancy on her part, she knew it, but she had foolishly hoped none the less that he would allow her this one thing. She'd willingly marry anyone he proposed to her, only if he'd find her a prince or lord _worthy_ of her love, someone who would love and protect her in kind, as an equal. Not someone twice her age, cruel, a man who would see worth only in her pretty face and her useful womb - much like King Ælle of Northumbria, who her father had thought to have her wed as his _second_ wife. 

So, it had been no real surprise to her people, that she had attempted to run away in the hustle of their foreign guests' arrival, which was why Ivar hadn't met her that day, all those months ago - because she had been locked in her rooms after being caught less than a half-an-hour ride from the castle. She was a disgrace to her father now, which was also how she knew undeniably that her being given to King Ragnar as some sort of gift was just another manipulation of her father's, just another piece to his overall and yet unseen plan to win this supposed war against the Heathens. 

"See, the thing about my father is, while he admittedly is fascinated by other cultures, he doesn't care for them to infect his own. So, with that thought in mind, do you _really_ think, if I was some great _beloved_ treasure of his, that he'd actually ever consider giving me to be sulled by one of those Heathens, do you?"

She could tell by his deep-in-thought look that he understood her words, showing her that he, at least, had inherited his father's keen mind, that he understood exactly what she was saying and then some. But then he smiled cunningly at her, startling her with a sudden wave of confusion, wondering just what about her words could prompt such a look of triumph.

"You have no love for your father, no?" He asked, though by his tone she could tell that he already knew the answer to that question already. 

"He gave me away, to the very people he views as his enemies, people he is planning on betraying, who'll no doubt sacrifice me to their damned Gods once they all learn of his plans - so _no_ , I don't have any love for him, let him _burn_ for all I care."

"I think you and I can do great things together, my Heathen Rose," Ivar all but purred, getting a deep flush from her at his improper endearment, she really shouldn't find it so . . . _charming_ as she actually did find it to be. 

"Oh, and _what_ great things are you hinting at, my Prince?" She asked, leaning in towards him, just as he was currently doing to her, watching with a fascination as his eyes sparkled at her own endearment, which just so happened to be his sorely ever used title. 

"You know the enemy," Ivar smirked, reaching forwards with a calloused hand to twirl a lock of her thick raven hair around his index finger playfully, "When war inevitably comes our way, with you at my side, we can make them feel our wraith."

"You want me as your wife, is that it, my Prince?" She asked, heart unsteady in her chest despite the cold mask she held upon her beautiful face, a face that many men had fought over - hell, King Ælle had certainly paid a pretty price for her hand after taking just one look at her as a blossoming girl of just thirteen.

"I want you as my _Queen_ ," Ivar corrected, eyes gleaming intensely, as he tugged lightly upon the lock of hair still twirled about his finger, eyes still locked upon her own.

She felt almost consumed by his gaze, like he was seeing right down to her very soul, and liked what he found there. Rose found that she liked what she found in his gaze too, it was an attraction that she had never experienced from a man before, he didn't just want her body, he wants her mind just as much.

How he figures he'll be able to make her his Queen, let alone himself a King, especially not as the youngest of four older male siblings. He'd have to go through all of them first, but by the harsh glint to his cold blue eyes, she very much doubted that that would be a problem for him. And oddly, she didn't find herself minding all that much either, his brothers' were all proving to be the brutes she expected them to be. 

And wouldn't that be an ironic turn of events, to return home to her motherlands as a Queen, after her father, the King of said lands, had tossed her aside like she was a common whore, to be sold off to the highest bidder. She would so love to see his face, just before she runs him through with a sword she was sure Ivar would be more than happy to gift her with if she asked, he seemed like the type to like a little blood on his women. 

"In my culture, it is customary to formally ask for a woman's hand by presenting her with a ring as a gift," she teased back just as playfully, eyes twinkling with a cunning edge all of her own, "Something of great beauty, unlike any other, something to inspire great jealousy in the hearts of other women."

"Is that so?" Ivar smiled, a pleased look in his eye, no doubt already knowing he had oh-so-swiftly won her hand out from under his many brothers.

"Uh-huh," she sounded, smiling back in kind, as she turned back to the table, pointedly ignoring the confused and far from pleased jealous looks said brothers were sending her and Ivar, the latter of whom seemed far too pleased with himself in the wake of such looks. "I expect nothing but the very best, my Prince."

"Well then," Ivar laughed softly, running a hand through his short brown locks, before shooting her a look so possessive she felt it right down to her very bones, "I shall endeavour to do my best to please you, _my_ Heathen Rose."

It was a promise that the fifth born Prince would keep throughout his many days, from that moment until his last, as the King of his wife's newly named homeland, England. A promise kept throughout many wars, and five children of their own, and a long life lived beside his beloved Queen, his Heathen Rose. 


End file.
